


Truth in the Thunder

by nostalgia



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, mildly dark doctor, selfish hero, very bad choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22172056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgia/pseuds/nostalgia
Summary: He's standing by a tall window above at a city draped in darkness. She could have sworn that's where she left him last time. She waits for him to speak first.“Just the usual, then?” he asks, turning to face her.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 192





	Truth in the Thunder

The Doctor creeps into the console room after checking that the others are asleep. She sets the coordinates from memory, sends a brief text to announce her imminent arrival.

She switches on the delta wave augmenter she installed in the TARDIS for nights like this. Her friends will stay safely asleep until she switches it off again. It's not dangerous, they won't be harmed, she can justify it to herself if she tries hard enough.

There are just certain things that they don't need to know about. Things they wouldn't approve of. Things they would try to stop her doing. 

The Doctor is no mood to be stopped. She has an itch to scratch, heat in her hearts and between her legs. 

The time-rotor stills and she leaves her ship in silence.

-

He's standing by a tall window above at a city draped in darkness. She could have sworn that's where she left him last time. She waits for him to speak first.

“Just the usual, then?” he asks, turning to face her.

By way of an answer she takes off her coat and heads towards the bedroom. He follows obediently, like he always does.

He catches up with her and closes the door behind them. “I thought-” he begins, but the words are cut off when she shoves him against the wall. 

“Touching,” she says, “not talking.” She kisses him firmly until he acquiesces and tugs her flush against his body. She catches his lower lip between her teeth and pulls it into her mouth not entirely gently. She bites down.

He moans softly, lifts a hand to cup her breast through her t-shirt. (He had mocked the rainbow theme once, on one of the rare occasions where she allowed him to say anything, and she had shot back “Mary Poppins” and thought herself victorious.) She arches her back a little to lean into the touch, drags her fingernails across his scalp. 

Of course, she's supposed to be above this sort of thing. She's supposed to have better taste in sexual partners. She's supposed to be the good one. He knows her better that, though, which is exactly why she's here.

She lets go long enough to slip her braces down and tug her t-shirt over her head. She edges backwards until her legs hit the side of the bed, then she's falling, pulling him down with her onto the mattress. Air leaves her lungs, hot and heavy.

His fingers slip under the waistband of her trousers, she wriggles to help him remove them. She starts unbuttoning his shirt from the bottom, and when she reaches the collar she presses her hand against his throat. 

“You choked me,” she says, remembering. 

“You liked it,” he responds, Adam's apple shifting against her palm. 

“Not the point,” she mutters, peeling his shirt from his shoulders.

She doesn't speak again. She's in no mood to talk and she doesn't have to, they already know each others preferences and kinks. They haven't that changed much over the centuries. 

She envelopes him eagerly, lifting her hips to pick up the pace. She meets his gaze, notes the mess of lust and anguish in his eyes and files it away to wonder about later. Does it really matter how he feels, after all he's done?

She swears in Gallifreyan when she comes, the dead language like dust on her lips. She focusses on sensation, the buzz of her blood and the pounding her own hearts.

“You can come,” she whispers, and he does. He dips his head to kiss her but she turns away and pushes against his shoulders. “Off,” she commands.

He flips onto his back beside her and she stares resolutely up at the ceiling. They lie in silence for a full minute and she thinks – hopes – that she'll be able to leave without him unloading his emotions onto her. Or trying to at least, because that's not what she's here for and she doesn't much care.

Nope.

“Can we talk?” he asks, hesitant.

She is up in an instant, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I've got to get back. Things to do, places to be.” She picks up her clothes from the floor and starts getting dressed. There's a chill in the air against the sweat on her skin. She hears him sigh, feels the shifting of the mattress as he turns away from her onto his side. Let him sulk, it's not like he doesn't deserve the pain.

She doesn't look back, walks back to her TARDIS and wonders if the old girl is judging her. Someone probably should be. 

The Doctor steps into the ship and stretches her arms wide. Shower and then something to eat. Wake the fam when she's done. Take them somewhere nice. Don't think about the Master. Keep running, always. 

Breathe.


End file.
